


Sam's Fortune

by ameliacareful



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's hustling pool and someone tells Sam's fortune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam's Fortune

Dean hustling, easy in the crack of pool balls, smell of Coors and sweat,   
The white noise of chatter.  The bar glue   
Holding the place together on red vinyl stools reflecting back  
At themselves in the mirror.  
  
Sam in the back reading a book about darkness.  A woman telling fortunes  
For drinks.  She drops into Sam’s booth.    
  
“I don’t pay to know the future,” he says.  
  
Her hair is bottle red, her eyes Bausch and Lomb green, “Pay me if I earn it,” she says and lays out a Celtic Cross of tarot cards.  
He’s the king of swords, (Dean’s card, really.)  She’s already busted.  
It’s gonna be a cold, cold read.  
  
He glances up, her eyes are white, rolled back.  He sees  
Rough men on Mongol ponies in a single line and dry windblown snow,  
A tattoo on a woman’s arm, abstract, geometric and strange,  
A blue white star circling a black hole distant and indifferent.  
Old old old.  
  
He cannot move.  Cannot rise.  
Something ancient smiles at him. “Aren’t you interesting,” it says.  
“I don’t want to know,” he manages.  
  
“You’ll just change it anyway, Sam Winchester.  You and your brother and the angel, you’ve already re-written the future, remember?”  
  
Tongue against lip.  Taste scale and flake and salt.  “Your future is shaped by your past.  You seek absolution.  So vast, you can’t conceive so you offer yourself and die, and die, and die.”  
  
“You’re like the curse:    
May you be born in interesting times.” The sere and tiny landscape of Stull Cemetery.  
“May you come to the attention of people in high places.”  Angels and demons riff through him like thumbing through a deck of cards.  Eyes black.  Eyes white.  Carnelian and tallow. So many dead.  
“And may you get your heart’s desire.”  
He sees nothing but the bar.  Dean leaning over for a shot.  Alive alive-o.  
  
“Who are your friends?”  He looks to Dean but Dean is his brother.  Everyone, Castiel, Charlie, even Crowley in orbit around Dean.  Sam is radium, he gives off lethal particles, he kills whatever human comes close so he keeps no one close.  
Except Dean.    
  
“Who knows you best, Sam?”  She leans forward.  
Dean, he wants to whisper.  She won’t let him.  The one who has known him longer and more intimately than any other.  She whispers it, “The Morningstar.”  
  
“Who loves you best?” she asks.  
An ancient blade, bright even in the bar light.  Sharp enough it cuts him sometimes.  
  
Dean, Dean, quick to anger, quick to love, who wears his anger and his appetite like armor and has never figured out that Sam is a dark star, friendless and alone, orbiting the heat of his brother for the illusion of heat, of life.   
  
His future is Dean.  
  
When the girl blinks the booth is empty.  
  



End file.
